Half
by ShrimpWonder
Summary: Something has happened at Arkham. The staff has been overrun, and the entrances sealed. All orchestrated by a man broken in two, obsessed with the idea that nothing is indivisible.


Thunder cracks the sky, a whip of light that parts the clouds and scatters the stars further. Rain falls like coins dropping from pockets, landing only to be flipped by the impact. The moon is gibbous, one dark side and one shining.

Across the rooftops of Gotham City, a half-man runs. Half man, half terror incarnate. The Bat-man. His cape reaches from behind him like grotesque hands made of shadow. He runs, wondering if it would have taken less time to have backtracked to the Tumbler. Always calculating, always planning. He could already see, even now, before escalation brought his legend to truly staggering heights, that this life would kill him sooner rather than later. He would tell himself he only needed to last long enough to make a difference. Longer than them.

With a carefully timed and perfectly executed leap, he lands on the roof of the modern Arkham Complex. Even here, the dark madness that ran through Arkham's veins permeates the air, that haunting call that would make this place central to the Batman's legend.

He can just barely see the older wing through the pelting rain. It's Gothic windows glow unsettlingly. A gloved hand reaches for a latch, he points, and a claw-ended wire zooms through the saturated air, clawing into the shoulder of a gargoyle. A bit lower than he had wanted, the line having been bogged down by the rain, but it will do.

He flies majestically across the roof and through a window. The hunt begins.

The hall is empty when he gets there. Clean, devoid of any sign of chaos, except for the fact that there are no guards, no orderlies, no one. Silence. A moment of hesitation at the door, that he chokes down ashamedly. He knows the man inside is supposed to be bound, for everyone's safety.

He kicks open the door, only for effect. Alfred had cleared the digital lock on it seconds before, and Gordon had assured him no one had gotten out. Still, he had to check on his prime suspect.

Inside a man lies on his back, smiling almost shyly at Batman. There is a hunger in those mad eyes, framed as they are by seaweed-green hair. No makeup, or war-paint as his followers would call it. It makes Batman feel somewhat safe to see his real face, but his spine tingles at the thought that inside, the Joker still sees himself with the paint on.

Even though he's restrained by a straight-jacket, Batman is still tense.

"Looking for something?" asks the Joker, licking his lips.

"What are you planning?" he replies with a question, his voice like the ragged flutter of bat-wings.

"Oh, I'm de-_lighted_ to say that, whatever you may think of me, _I_ am as much a spectator in this ordeal as you are," replied the scarred man in his stumbling sing-song voice.

The Batman merely growls in reply.

"Really, I w-wouldn't _lie_ to you," he says with a laugh that pretends to show nervousness, but only shows slipping control, "it's not like I'm completely enjoying this. I've missed a meal!"

He's too tense, too watchful of the Joker. Distracted, wide open, he realizes, just before the world tips over to it's side. The man is large, and he crashes into the Batman from behind. Batman rolls with the momentum of the impact of being tackled, getting into a fighting stance. His gauntleted fist comes down hard on his attacker's back, knocking the wind out of him. He knees the man in the face, pivoting to catch another attacker who lunges toward him. He grabs his arm, twisting it.

Too many hostiles at the same time, he is too busy defending himself to prevent them from taking the Joker. In minutes, many of the men lie unconscious and wounded at his feet. Joker is gone. The Batman walks out, his cape billowing out behind him.

"Jim, how are you on getting some backup in here?"

"Working on it. We're short on men, after all that's happened, and half the force is dealing with the Cobblepot bust. I'd go in myself, but the place is pretty sealed up. Soonest I can get anyone in there is in an hour, maybe more if the security systems give us any more trouble."

In the precise middle of the old wing of Arkham Asylum, a half man stands. Half man, half monster. Or, perhaps, you could say they are two men. They seem to think so, half the time. One, the handsome White Knight of Gotham City. The other, a dead thing, red and black sinews and exposed teeth, a wide, haunting eye. In front of him, all the workers whose shift coincided with his plan. Men, women. Doctors, nurses, guards, secretaries, orderlies. They're bound and gagged. Some are crying.

"What are you doing, Dent?" asks a rough voice from the dark.

"I'm trying to decide how to divide them," says Harvey, looking up to where the Bat-man stands, posing dramatically in the rafters above them. Still a novice, posing and faking a growling voice. After tonight, that will be gone.

"You won't escape. I won't let you get out of here, Dent. There's too much still at stake," says the rough voice. And there is. The city still mourns the passing of their white knight, unknowing of his current state: a broken man, a mad man, half.

"That's not what I want," replies Harvey, shaking his head. He needs to get rid of Batman. Surreptitiously he palms his revolver in his right hand, his left holding the coin.

"Are you planning to kill the Joker?" he asks, stalling as he calculates his trajectory, how he'll disarm each of the men standing next to Harvey.

"No. . . I can't do that. He's part of a pair, it wouldn't be just," says Harvey. "See, everything can be divided by two. Nothing is indivisible. Even before you destroyed half of me, I was two men. Surely, you are two men yourself. You have your counterpart: the Joker. Without him, you are nothing. You and him are two sides of one coin," his voice is frenzied now, as if he needs to say this, no matter who is listening, "But the Joker. . . he seems shattered, there is no way to divide him in two. I need to know what makes him tick. . . I need to snap him in half."

"What are you going to-" starts the Batman, just as Harvey points his revolver at him. The Bat dodges, jumping down onto the extended back of a gargoyle. The gunshot leaves everyone's ears ringing. Another shot, another dodge, and he is on the ground, Harvey's men upon him.

He kicks and pivots, disarming and incapacitating. He is numb to it, acting on reflex as he tries to figure out how to stop Harvey, whatever his plans are. Another shot blasts through the air, and Batman is pushed forward into the arms of one of Harvey's men. His back feels like a truck has slammed into it, and he can already feel a soccer-ball-sized bruise forming. The rest of him is numb, and he slumps over.

Harvey stands over his inert figure, and flips his coin. "I'll divide them by profession. Doctors, nurses and orderlies, who try to help the patients here; and guards, secretaries, the like, who are here to impose order where there is none."

Harvey's men divide the people, taking them in opposite directions. Two remain, who proceed to tie Batman up to a stone column. Dent points the gun at him, and hesitates. He lowers it.

"You are not my prey. Nor Harvey's."

"But you're mine, Dent, if you plan on harming anyone. We used to hunt the scum that tied people up. What are you really, Harvey? What have you become?"

"You're not talking to Harvey. He's away. I'm Two-Face," he replies, his voice subtly different.

"Is that what you'll call yourself, to become a murderer?"

"I haven't become anything, Batman. I have always been a part of Harvey," he stares penetratingly into Batman's eyes, the left eye full of malice.

A surge of desperation fills the Batman, and he finds the strength to slam his head against Two-Face. He staggers back, baring his teeth on the unburnt side of his disfigured face. The spikes on Batman's gauntlets cut through the rope, and he tackles Two-Face, driving him to the ground.

"What are you planning?" he growls, a hand at his neck. Harvey feels the skin on his neck burn on the left side. He feels scar tissue breaking, and his air supply dwindles.

"I-I don't know!" screams Harvey, his voice familiar again. Batman's fists slam into his face, on each side, and the ground seems to shake with each punch. Two-Face laughs bitterly.

"_You are Harvey Dent! There is no Two-Face!_" roars Batman, his voice breaking and he loses character. It is Bruce now, dressed as The Bat, who pleads at Harvey. Harvey, the man who had given him hope for the future of Gotham. Driven insane by The Joker. His mind split in two by the chaos and the pain.

"They took Joker. . . letting him loose on both groups of hostages. . . need to know, need to know where the line is. . . where he is divided. . ." gulps Harvey, panting. Atop him sits a man in a suit of armor, another broken man divided in two, who shifts and transforms once again into that menacing shadow. Now it is the Batman who straddles him, who gets up and stalks off to the left hall.

"Jim, any news?"

"Place is as locked down as a goddamn military bunker. S.W.A.T. can't get here, the Cobblepot bust went bad and they've got a massive shootout by the docks. I tried getting an air drop to get in through the roof, but the weather's too bad."

"How about the way I came in?"

"Too much rain to get anything anywhere near the building from the next roof over. We'll keep trying and I'll keep you up to date."

"Can you believe it, Batman? They gave me a room of pets! Is it my birthday? Maaaybe the anniversary of something? Oh, I know, it must be some sort of holiday! Happy Slaughterday, Batman!"

Somehow the crazy bastard has gotten hold of the intercom system. His canned voice saunters down the corridors, idle mad ramblings whose only purpose is to tease him into falling for some trap. That was Joker's MO anyway: sick, twisted games rigged for failure.

"You know, five of these men tried to fix my head, but pills only make my brain dull and slow. Can't reach my mind, not even _I_ know where that is! Hahahaha!"

"Alfred, can you tell me which intercom speaker he's using?" mumbles Batman into his headset.

"Corridor B, unit 11-3," came Alfred's voice, as if it were inside his head.

"And _shock therapy_, now that was fun. Better than any recreational drug. And to say nothing of the poor guys who tried to analyze me and fix me with good old-fashioned psychology. Two out of three retired, and the third one is kept on the whole other side of the Asylum. HeheheHAHAHA!"

Now screams filtered through the intercom, and Batman hurries, an imaginary burning prickling at his throat. He got a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach. A bad sign, he needs to take control of his emotions. Channel them.

"And you, doctor Quinn! You ha-haven't made much progress either, have you? No- you- have- _not!_ Does it scare you that I picked you myself? Oh! They didn't tell you that? Now that's just unprofessional. Yes, yes, the head counselor allowed me to choose between psychiatrist Edmund Cold, some more shock therapy or you. He thought it meant I was participating in my own recovery. HA!" More screams, indistinct. Horrible sounds mixed in.

A bang, a swinging door and heavy breathing. The Bat stands in the doorway, trying to look menacing. The hostages are in there, most seem unharmed. Some have blood on them, but the spray patterns indicate that it's not their own. The Joker is gone.

"Where is he?"asks the Batman.

"H-he left. . . he took doctor Quinzel with him," says a sobbing nurse. Everyone else looks noticeably shaken, some even seem to be in shock.

"I didn't see him leave." he growls, thinking that maybe the Joker has scared them into submission and told them to tell him he left. A nurse, his eyes trembling and his breathing shallow, jerks his head at the door. Batman quickly turns, ready to fight, only to find a psychologist's recorder taped to the receiver of the intercom. Joker must have recorded the part with Dr. Quinzel, then stalled with all his idle chatter, and played it when he left.

He untied one of them and gave him a knife to untie the rest. Then he was gone. Perhaps Batman was too trusting, or perhaps he was in too much of a hurry to think clearly.

Through claustrophobic halls and across spiderweb marble The Batman runs, pushing himself to his limit. He slices through the air like a shadow, and he can hear other footsteps farther up. He's gaining on them.

He reaches a door that has just shut, canned laughter reaching his ears. He slams against it, kicking and punching. There's no way to get through. Looking through the wire-meshed glass window he sees a room full of hostages. One of them, a blonde doctor, leans against the wall, shivering. She's covered in blood.

He reaches for his plastic explosives just as the Joker grabs a tied-up guard and puts him against the seam between the door and the wall. More muffled laughter filters through the door as he unties the unconscious guard's hands and ties one to the doorjamb and the other to a guardrail next to the door. The man hangs with his arms spread as if trying to keep him out.

"Now here's a conundrum for you, Batman. Would you kill this one, pathetic man to save this room full of hostages?"

Batman growled. It wasn't a sure deal that his explosives would kill the man, but the chance was too high. Should he fail, and take the life of that man, everything would be lost. He just had to find another way in.

Inside the room, the air vibrated like a plucked guitar string. Rain pelted the windows and thunder shook the walls. The Joker paced the room, seemingly unaware of the hostages in there with him. He seemed to be trying to gain control of himself, his teeth clenched, his eyes shut.

As unnatural as a coin changing direction in midair, the clown changed attitude, walking briskly to the door, taping the intercom's Talk button down.

"Need him to hear me- us- you. Maybe I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, ha ha ha ha!"

Doctor Harleen Quinzel just kept shivering. She was in shock, from the pain of having her cheeks torn open, from having her assigned patient attack her, from having her day turn into a slice of hell. She couldn't even cry, she was far beyond that.

"D'you know why I chose you, Doctor Quinzel?" asked the Joker, rounding around her like a jackal. Or, perhaps more appropriately, a hyena. "You _get_ me. You really do, you understand my point of view like no one does. It horrifies you, doesn't it? Listening to me and, well, _agreeing_ with me."

The doctor shook her head wildly, her blood-spattered hair flopping about her head. Blood drooled from her mouth, dripped from other cuts on her body.

Her took her face roughly, staring into her bright blue eyes. "Don't you deny it! You don't _really_ believe I'm crazy. Not like the other quacks in this place."

Her eyes closed, at first as if to shut him out, but they softened. She took a shuddering breath.

"I was _like_ you," he said, touching his forehead with hers, a bloodied hand going through her hair. "And you are just like how I was, until I woke up. And that's what you need, Harley."

Her eyes opened and looked into his.

"D'you wanna know how I got these scars?" His lips leaned into her ear, and he whispered madness into her. A truth he was never sure about, a truth that mutated with every breath, yet for the first time she could see the clarity in him. "I just wanted to smile. . ." he finished dramatically, stepping away from her.

She stared at him, blinking. She spoke slowly, her voice wet and small as she tried not to hurt her cheeks any further, "After. . . the first few days. . . of being your psychologist, I was. . . offered to choose another case. . . I chose to stay with you. . . I told myself it was because. . . I wanted to help, but really. . . it was only because. . . I love you. . . ."

He stared into her eyes, fierce and wild and unnatural. "There's another reason I chose you. . . "

"Why?" she asked, her eyes lighting with hope. He approached silently, leaning in, his face inches from hers. "Harleen Quinzel," he started, savoring the sound of her name. "Like a harlequin. Harley Quinn."

He started to laugh, loud in her face as if to make a point. She resisted, but after a moment she gave in, laughter bubbling up from within, like smoke escaping a burning house. She laughed shrilly, her mouth open wide, tearing her cheeks further open. Blood gushed.

"Now make art, Harley," he laughed, handing her a knife. She took it, her hands trembling as she continued laughing. With a shriek she plunged it into soft flesh, her scream mixing with her victim's. Blood spurted, landing on half of her head, staining the left side of her hair dark red, running down her face. A perfect red line, dividing her in half. Thunder clapped, turning everything blue and black for tiny, eternal moments.

With a slam, a crash and the sparkling laughter of shattering glass, a shadow flooded into the room. Rain rushed in to cleanse the walls and floor, and with a roar the Bat drop-kicked Joker to the ground. He fell, laughing beneath the amazing shadow of his idol. The Batman was framed by the shivering white noise of billowing rain, like a tattered halo of light and shadow.

A scream, a swish and a wet thud as Harley stabbed her knife into Batman's side. He whipped around, knocking her down with his elbow just as the Joker dealt a blow to the back of his head. Batman staggered forward, pivoting to punch into Joker's face, who stepped out of the way and tried to kick Batman. He grabbed the clown's extended leg, twisting it to bring the cackling madman down, sweeping him with a heave into Harley.

With a quick move, he wrapped them both in the Joker's straitjacket's overlong sleeves, tying them together in a painful and exaggerated embrace.

As he set to work untying the hostages, half a man stood in the doorway, in his half-burnt suit. "I don't get it," he said in that subtly wrong voice. "His actions have no meaning, no pattern, nothing that can be divided."

"You said it yourself, Harvey. 'Nothing is indivisible'. That's what he is, a void, a mad nothingness."

A moment of silence, and the Bat looks up. Harvey Two-Face seems disillusioned, his disfigured face expressionless. "It's a joke. All a setup for a punchline."

"You're going back, you know," said Batman, "no one can know of you."

"Do you know what happened to the other hostages?" asked Two-Face with a bitter amusement, "Killed themselves, killed each other, mutilated amongst them. Only a few emerged alive, and only two came out with their reason intact. Two."

"He drove them mad, like he did with her," he said, indicating the unconscious pair. "They might recover. . . she won't."

"All a joke," repeated Harvey, "what he did to them. Fit a psychologist with a straitjacket. . . " He chuckled, and walked away as cops flooded into the building.


End file.
